


Standard Patrol

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Category: Batgirl (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just your standard night of investigating shady people and busting up the men who busted up a Wayne Gala. (Full of patented Stephanie Brown snark and batfamily bickering.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standard Patrol

**Author's Note:**

> Just trying to clear some stuff out of my WIP folder now that it's a new year! Once upon a time this was going to have a bit more to it, but I do think it rounds itself out nicely as is

The near-silent thud of boots on cement.

 

The whir of a grappling line.

 

The snap of a cape.

 

Steph’s swinging through the buildings of Gotham, a symbol on her chest, a mission in her bones.

 

A commlink in her ear.

 

“I’m hurt, O,” Dick complains, and there’s some static and maybe the thump of an escrima stick on flesh. “I can’t believe you bet against me.”

 

“I won, didn’t I?” Babs returns, and there’s real warmth in her voice. Steph can imagine her at her desk, sipping coffee as she takes in the information flying across her monitors, a smirk on her lips and a light in her eye. “You can’t complain at me for being _right_.”

 

Steph lands, lets herself fall into a crouch to absorb her momentum. Her cape swarms around her dramatically, and if she weren’t on open comms, she might do her best Batman impression. (Bruce is, after all, the king of dramatics.) While Dick would probably find it hilarious and Babs would be mildly entertained, Steph doesn’t really need the embarrassment. So she just straightens and strides across the roof, footsteps quiet even on the gravel, and Dick’s voice crackles in her ear once more.

 

“I can complain at you for not having faith in me.” And that, right there—that is the sound of Dick pouting. Steph recognizes it from every movie night where his suggestions get overruled, which is nearly every movie night. (Dick has a fondness for Bollywood that none of the rest of them share.)

 

“I know you too well to have faith in your ability to not cry during _Bambi.”_

 

“Yeah, well, Bambi’s mom _dies_ , O; how heartless do you have to be to not cry during that?”

Steph swings over the edge of the roof and carefully sets her grapple while Babs and Dick continue to sass each other good-naturedly. She thinks it sounds like the on-again/off-again love affair of the millennium is about to be on again—and she’s glad for them, she is. They’re great together in a whole lot of ways.

 

They just—they have a lot of history. They can’t always see past that in order to see each other. They’re happy for a while and then, inevitably, they get hurt, and they break up, and they have even more history to deal with.

 

In them, she can see what her relationship with Tim might have been like if she and Boyfriend hadn’t mutually sworn a pact to never get back together again ever. (They’ve given each other license to brick the other in the face if they even try to make a move, though Steph doesn’t think Tim would actually do it. She’s sure they’d find an equivalent that’s more their speed, and she’s okay with that.)

 

(Even if it potentially means getting rickrolled by every email she gets for a month.)

 

She moves downward, slow but steady, and can’t help but quietly ask “Anyone ever told you two you bicker like an old married couple?” as they begin fighting over whether the blue of Dick’s costume is closer to royal blue or midnight blue.

 

“Hood tells me every other day,” Dick says, just as Babs snorts and mutters, “Pretty sure there are at least a few universes where we are.”

 

Steph rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “I’m in position, O,” she murmurs, flexing the fingers of her free hand. “Alarms?”

 

“That’s my cue,” Dick says (probably with a grin). “Have fun working, ladies. Nightwing out.” There’s a click as he signs off the comms.

 

“All the alarms are silent; I’ll reroute them away from GCPD,” Babs responds before falling silent in concentration. There’s the faint, plasticky clacking of her keyboard, but otherwise static is all that fills Steph’s ears.

 

She tests the window, and it’s not locked, but it is jammed. (Go figure.) She secures the line carefully around her waist to free her other hand, gives it a few sharp tugs to test. Satisfied, she lets it hold her weight as she gets her feet set and shifts up onto the slender sill.

 

She breathes out, tightening her grip on the bottom edge of the window and pressing down hard on the balls of her feet, muscles in her thighs straining. The window resists before giving way with a groaning creak, her knees straightening and knuckles whitening beneath her gloves. “I’m in,” she murmurs, sliding through and releasing the line from around her waist. She leaves the grapple in place and the window open—hopefully she won’t be here long.

 

This case started as a drug bust, segued through arms dealing and child trafficking (she'd handed that bit off to Helena), and now it seems to be passing through corporate espionage. She’s been working on this for weeks, and progress has been slow despite Steph’s best efforts. (And though she may not be Timothy “Batman Lite” Drake, Barbara “Goddess of the Internet” Gordon, or Richard “Been at this over a Decade” Grayson, she has a knack for pattern recognition. Call it genetics.) She knows there’s something missing, despite knowing who the head of this ring is, and she’s so _fucking_ _close_ she can almost taste it. Those last clues are here.

 

She thinks.

 

(She hopes.)

 

The lock picks feel weirdly natural in her hand as she sets to work on the filing cabinet, and man. All those times Tim tried to help her with this and it only took one lesson from Catwoman to cut her time in half? She needs to send Selina a fruit basket—or maybe a ticket to this play she’s been hearing good things about? That might be more thoughtful.

 

The cabinet clicks open, and on second thought—Catwoman. Picking locks. She really shouldn't be surprised Selina was able to teach her.

 

She skims through the file names, plucks out a few that might be relevant. “See anything, O?” she murmurs as she flips through. She pauses on each page just long enough to skim for anything suspicious, trusting that the camera in her cowl is relaying everything to Babs, who can study them at greater length.

 

“The numbers definitely aren’t right, BG, but we already knew that.”

 

“Yeah.” Steph blows out a breath, replaces the files, and rises from her crouch to move over to the desk. “Got any guesses for this guy’s password?”

 

“No pets, no kids, no spouse.” She can almost hear Babs’s shrug. “Try ‘password123.’”

 

Steph snorts, boots up the desktop, and takes a seat in his desk chair. She places her hands on the desk, studies the business-y detritus—a desk calendar, “In” and “Out” trays for paperwork, a cup full of half-used pens and dull pencils, an electric sharpener, a stapler, some post-its. “Alright,” she mutters, picking up the pad of paper next to the keyboard, skimming the writing on it. “I’m a low level corporate stooge and I pretend to be perfectly mediocre in every facet of my life, but I’m actually an extremely successful crime boss with my fingers in a whole bunch of nasty pies. I’m using my position to move funds for obvious-criminal-enterprise-building purposes yet have an as-yet-unseen motive. Where do I write down my passwords?”

 

She pulls open a few drawers, feels for hidden compartments, flips through random scraps of paper.

 

“I could always walk you through hacking it,” Babs murmurs, but Steph shakes her head as she keeps rifling.

 

“Gimme a few minutes, and if I haven’t found it yet then we’ll go there. You saw that notepad, right? He has quick notes jotted down regarding his daily routine—‘refill coffee pot,’ ‘check mailbox,’ etc. No way he does shit like that and doesn’t have his passwords written down.”

 

Babs hums. “Point. Not to mention his sophisticated alarm system featuring an unlocked window. He assumes his tech is infallible without bothering to actually—“

 

“—Aha!” Steph straightens, waving a slip of paper victoriously. “The point, oh mighty Oracle, is moot. Found ‘em.”

 

“Gloat later, BG,” Babs teases.

 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Steph fires back, fingers flying across the keyboard.

 

A few minutes of silence, broken only by the plastic clatter of the keys and the click of the mouse.

 

“You know, I think I’ve finally got these gloves broken in properly,” she remarks idly, flipping through file windows. “Very dexterous. I mean, as dexterous as Kevlar can ever really get. You know, I almost get Catwoman’s get-up? I mean, not the whole zipper thing, or even the whip thing, it’s a little BDSM for my tastes—although she totally pulls it off. Anyway, leather definitely wears in a lot faster and easier, you know, and flexibility is really important to her line of—“

 

“—Go back one,” Babs interrupts.

 

“I thought I told you not to boss me around,” Steph complains jokingly even as she clicks back a panel.

 

“See what I’m seeing?” Babs asks, grimly.

 

Steph makes a noise that wouldn’t be out of place coming from a dying cat.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Babs sighs, and Steph viciously begins clicking through the files in front of her.

 

“Does he do this on purpose?” she hisses, pulling a USB out of her utility belt and plugging it in to start the file transfer. “I swear to God, O, he fucking does this on—he just doesn’t want anyone else to get targeted, right, so he paints a big ol’ sign on WE? ‘Hey, Gotham, attacking a Wayne Gala is to aspiring supervillains as a debutante ball is to aspiring socialites! Here’s my calendar for the next three weeks, please _please_ pick the one where most of my children are in attendance and therefore not capable of actually helping take you down because they have to maintain their secret identities! Bonus points if you also pick the one where I’m off world with the Justice League—I mean, at a ski resort, I’m totally not Batman!’”

 

“BG, calm down,” Babs orders—no, Oracle. This is all Oracle. “Finish the file transfer, clean up the evidence of your visit, and clear out. I’m rerouting N and Hood to Wayne Tower; they’ll be there a few minutes behind you. I’m also going to alert the GCPD and—“

 

“Do what you need to do, O; no need to give me a run down,” Steph interrupts, swiftly closing out of the files and tucking the USB back into her belt. “I’ll get back on comms when I’m at the Tower; BG out.”

 

***

 

Mr. I-Wanna-Play-in-the-Big-Leagues is standing on the half-stage at the front of the room, gesticulating wildly as he monologues. Steph _kind of_ wishes he was something more interesting and a little less cliché, but at the same time. Well. This is so much easier.

 

There are goons at every door.

 

Said goons have machine guns and body armour.

 

Said goons do _not_ have helmets.

 

Said goons will be easy pickings for Dick and Jason, once they show up.

 

The bats in the crowd can be relied on to get everyone organized and moving when the opportunity presents itself.

 

All this leaves for Steph are Hot Shot and the Henchmen, Gotham’s latest big band breakout. Their opening night has so far been a little _explosive_ , and it looks like they’re gearing up for their greatest _hits_ album already.

 

She smirks, mutters, “I am fucking hilarious.”

 

Her comm crackles to life. “No, but that statement is,” Jason tells her.

 

“My, but aren’t I pleased to hear your gravelly ass voice,” Stephs sighs, releasing the catches on the extendable bo staff on her belt. “You in position?” she murmurs.

 

“Just out of sight of the fuckwads as we speak.”

 

“If I move now, Hood, can you handle it until N shows up?” Steph asks, quiet and serious, and Jason is silent for a moment. Evaluating.

 

“I want to say yes, but this ballroom is huge. It’d be a risk, relying on one person for back-up. I say wai—“

 

“No need, I’m entering the building now; kick his ass, BG,” Dick breaks in, and Steph shrugs, rises from the crouch she’s been holding along one of the rafters, line in both hands.

 

“I’ll leave it to your judgment as to when you get involved, boys,” she murmurs, and throws herself backwards off of the beam—her line tugs tight, arresting her momentum, and gravity drags her forward. She takes out two of the Henchmen at the bottom of her swing and lands gracefully in a crouch. There’s silence for a moment as she rises, makes a show of glancing around as if she didn’t realize what she was interrupting.

 

The man on the stage is frozen in place, staring at her with his arms still held in the air. His motif is garish yellow and orange, a zoot suit throwback that reminds her of that one episode of Tom and Jerry.

 

Steph cocks her head to the side, widens her eyes under the cowl. “Sorry. Ruining your monologue?”

 

The moment breaks. Dick and Jason start their work, there’s fresh shouting and screaming from the crowd, and the Henchmen snap into action, coalescing on Steph all at once. (She snaps out her bo staff, knocks a few heads, uses one as a springboard up to the stage. All very routine.)

 

Hot Shot goes for one his shoulder holsters, but she lashes out with her staff, knocking the pistol out of his hand before he can even get his index finger inside the trigger guard. “I can’t believe I’m facing Batgirl,” he snarls, giving ground as Steph stalks forward.

 

“No need to fanboy; I’m just your average, run of the mill, badass teenage vigilante, nothing to get exci—“

 

He interrupts Steph’s snark, face twisting into frustration and rage. “I don’t even rate _Robin_?”

 

“You’re kidding me, right?” Steph stares at him for a moment, freezing as she’s caught flatfooted by the insult. Hot Shot and the Remaining Henchmen (who have followed her onto the stage) stand there awkwardly, glancing amongst themselves as Steph glares at them. “Oh my god. You actually think—is this a common perception? Does the villain and criminal community in general think that Robin is a—I don’t know, a more _worthy foe_ than I am?”

 

“Get on with it, BG,” Jason snarls, and there’s a smattering of machine gun fire at the back of the room. (The goons finally noticed the vigilantes among them, apparently.)

 

“Robin’s not even a teenager!” Steph hisses, and she’s not sure if she’s talking to Jason or Hot Shot, but she snaps back into action. Tim, Cass, and Damian (who's probably _preening_ ) have gotten the crowd more or less organized, taking advantage of the doors Jason and Dick have freed up to move people out and clear the room—so Steph takes the fight off of the stage.

 

Or rather, she takes the Henchmen off of it, dodging their attacks and then sending them flying with some well-placed kicks and sweeps of her bo staff.

 

"Feel free to tell your criminal buddies it was a teenage girl who kicked your asses!" she shouts down at their groaning forms, grip tightening on her bo staff as anger surges through her. She whirls on her heel—Hot Shot is sprinting away, trying to exit stage left since Steph had been distracted. One vicious twist of her wrist disconnects one end of her bo staff, and she breathes out, focuses, and a snap of her arm sends it flying through the air to connect end-first with the nape of the man's neck. He drops in a heap, probably unconscious and with a nasty bruise.

 

The sounds of gunfire ended sometime around the third Henchman that was thrown off of the stage, signaling that Jason and Dick are done (and, based on the lack of bickering, already rabbitted and left Steph with all of the clean-up). At least the crowd is fully clear, out of her way—the cacophony of footsteps has disappeared along with the refreshing glimpses of Cass in a little black dress.

 

Steph zip-ties the henchmen first, since not all of them were knocked out, merely wounded and winded, then retrieves the end of her bo staff and zips up Hot Shot. She's screwing the staff back together when she nudges Hot Shot with one toe and grumbles, "I still can't believe you'd rather fight Robin; he's practically _pre-pubescent_."

 

"Boys," Babs says, derisive, and Steph grunts her agreement.

 

"Hey!" Dick complains; Jason shushes him.

 

"What would you say if Nightwing walked into a building, expecting to scare the shit out of everyone, and they all just stood around going 'um, we thought we at least ranked a fight with Impulse?'"

 

"Don't be mean to Bart," Steph says automatically, more attention on checking pulses and making sure not to pull the ties too tight as she works her way through Jason's and Dick's KOs. Sirens wail in the distance, GCPD as late as ever, and she wipes a bead of sweat off of the end of her nose. "I'm almost done here, O; I'm coming straight back to the Clocktower unless you have something else you need me to do tonight."

 

"I'll have an ice bath ready for those knuckles of yours," Babs says, which is answer enough.

 

"My knuckles are nothing compared to their faces," Steph boasts, rises from her crouch into a full body stretch, fingers laced and arms extending over her head. Her back pops several times in succession, and she lets out a practically pornographic moan. (Jason snickers, and Dick splutters.)

 

"I just got a text from Tim; the cops are there, BG. Go on and get out unless you want to be held up while they take your statement."

 

"Yeah, yeah. Going off comms; send a smoke signal if you need me." Steph jogs across the room towards the door to the balcony. Upon her emergence, the cool city air feels like heaven on what bits of her aren't covered in Kevlar—she decides ice cream is in her future.

 

Her boots pad.

 

Her grapple whirs.

 

Her cape snaps—

 

Once more it's just Steph and Gotham and the symbol on her chest.

 

 


End file.
